Shannon Waverly - Three For The Road

Standing a few feet away, Pete scowled. Closed all her accounts? And she had only seven hundred bucks? Mary Elizabeth was becoming more of a puzzle every minute.

Then it hit. That was why she’d reacted to her fine. She’d been worried about the amount of money she’d have to hand over.

The judge said, “Then I suggest you contact a relative or a friend.”

Again, Mary Elizabeth shook her head. “I...I can’t do that, either.”

The judge was growing impatient. “Unless you want to work out an alternative, I think you had better, young lady.”

“May I ask what the alternative is?” Mary Elizabeth inquired, squeezing and twisting the strap of her purse.

“Fifteen days in the county jail.”

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes went a few degrees wilder.

Pete clasped the nape of his neck. Don’t do it, Mitchell. Get yourself the hell out of here, he thought, even as he stepped forward and said, “Your Honor, I’ll loan Ms. Drummond the money. That way you can get this train moving again.” He could’ve sworn the formidable woman on the bench mouthed the words “Thank you.” He didn’t say “You’re welcome.” He was angry at her for assuming Mary Elizabeth had money readily available, an assumption based on the style of her hair and the quality of her clothes.

Mary Elizabeth turned in surprise. Her gaze traveled over him in quick assessment, taking in his black eye, two-day-old beard, faded jacket and jeans whose knee had finally popped a tear.

“That’s very generous of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept your money.”

Instantly he rued his generosity, not knowing whether to laugh at her mistaken assumptions about him or shove her condescension down her throat.

“Fifteen days,” he reminded her, half hoping she’d go for the time.

“But...are you sure you can spare it?” she asked.

“For you? Anything.” He winked, but there was no mistaking his sarcasm.

She looked confused. “I’ll repay you. Just as soon as I reach where I’m going.”

“Of course you will. I didn’t say it was a gift.”

The judge asked, “Are you willing to pay her tow charge as well?”

“Yes. How much?”

“Sixty-five dollars.”

Mary Elizabeth’s face dropped. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, but only loud enough for Pete to hear. He nudged her with his elbow, using restraint to just nudge and not ram. Her muttering ceased.

Pete handed over the cash, making a mental note to stop at the first ATM he came to.

“That’s it? I’m free to go?” Mary Elizabeth asked, a conflicted mixture of incredulity and relief.

“Yes. Next case,” the judge said quickly.

Mary Elizabeth couldn’t shake the feeling she was caught in a nightmare. She felt almost sick from exhaustion and fear, and knew, as she walked away from the bench, her steps were weavy. All she wanted to do was crawl under a rock somewhere and sleep. Instead, Officer Wilson was waiting for her, pad and pen poised.

“The wallet’s beige, cowhide, monogrammed in gold with my initials,” Mary Elizabeth said.

“Credit cards?”

“Yes. Three.” She fought off a tightening in her throat. “And a gasoline card, and four department store cards.” Her sense of being caught in a dream world deepened. What was she to do now? No money, no plastic...

“Where would you like us to send the wallet, if it turns up?”

“Oh.” Mary Elizabeth passed an unsteady hand over her brow. “My friend’s in Sarasota. Yes, definitely my friend’s.” If it ever went back to Charles, she’d die of humiliation. She could almost hear him saying it now, “I told you you’d never make it on your own.”

Unexpectedly, thoughts of home rushed over her, and with them came remembrance of her mother’s affair, her shock at learning she was illegitimate, her distress over her pregnancy...so many problems that had somehow gotten relegated to a back burner since last evening.

Having procured all the necessary information, the officer pocketed her pen, wished Mary Elizabeth well, and walked off, leaving her standing alone with the weight of her remembered troubles. Feeling vague and quite disoriented, she turned to go. “Oh,” she said in surprise. Peter Mitchell, whose name she’d learned just this hour, was still in the courtroom, standing right behind her.

He had the clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen. The fact that one of them was bruised didn’t detract from their impact one bit. Right now those eyes were narrowed under a lowered brow, studying her. She guessed she looked pretty bewildered.

“Yes?” she asked uncertainly.

“Do you want to take my address?”

She blinked, uncomprehending.

“So you’ll know where to send the money I lent you.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She opened her purse and withdrew a pen and a small notebook. He took them from her and began to write. He had nice hands, she thought distractedly. Strong, broad hands that were cut and callused yet imbued with a certain masculine grace.

He wrote his address on the top sheet of paper, along with the amount she owed him. Then he flipped to the next sheet and wrote out an IOU, to which Mary Elizabeth added her signature and Chloe’s address.

“That should do it,” Pete said, pocketing the IOU.

“Yes.” She glanced down at the address he’d written in a surprisingly neat but firm hand and felt a kick of adrenaline. “You live in Tampa?”

But he had already turned and was heading for the exit. She hurried to catch up. Her head had cleared remarkably. Moreover, her spirits were lifting, probably because it had just begun to sink in that she’d been found not guilty. She would have no criminal record, no impediments standing in the way of establishing herself in a new location.

“This is really a coincidence. I’m going to Florida myself.”

Peter opened the courtroom door and made his way through the crowded corridor, his eyes fixed on the exit ahead.

“I’m going to Sarasota,” she persisted, following. “That’s on the Gulf Coast too, not very far from Tampa, right?”

“No,” he said, hurrying on. “It’s miles away. Many, many miles.”

Mary Elizabeth would’ve contested his claim, but just then she spotted the policeman with the sincere, youthful face who’d arrested her the previous night. He was standing by the main door, just ending a conversation with someone who looked like a lawyer.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know if there’s a phone at the garage where my RV was taken?”

“Yes, ma’am, there is.”

“Great. Thanks.” She’d call the credit card companies from there to notify them that her cards had been stolen. She continued out the door, Peter Mitchell a few brisk paces ahead of her. She’d thought perhaps they’d walk to the garage together or maybe take a cab, but apparently he wanted to go his own way, alone. She drooped with mild disappointment.

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